


The Silence of Your Heart

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 22:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Spoiler AlertA million shades of grey, like all of the color in the world has been mopped up with a sponge. I stand, staring out the window. The world was so vibrant just one week ago, but now the brilliancy has been replaced with the cold, unforgiving monotone.It is a week after Sherlock jumped as John Watson describes how his world has changed. And then, a miracle takes place.





	The Silence of Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Darling,  
> kiss me like you need  
> to feel safe  
> Because my lips want to know  
> all the places  
> you have been hurt  
> So they can make all the pain  
> drift away
> 
> Pg.27 Pillow Thoughts by Courtney Peppernell
> 
> This is the poem I based this story off of. 
> 
> The title is based off the song ‘The Silence of Your Heart’ by Paolo Fresu, Dino Rubino, and Marco Bardoscia, which I listened to while writing this. 
> 
> TW: slight mention of suicide

The world is grey. 

A million shades of grey, like all of the color in the world has been mopped up with a sponge. I stand, staring out the window. The world was so vibrant just one week ago, but now the brilliancy has been replaced with the cold, unforgiving monotone. 

I shiver all the time, it seems. I’m never able to get warm, as if he had taken a piece of my soul with him when-

When he jumped. 

My heart thuds at the memory. The first few days I felt numb, but after the funeral, the pain just settled heavily in my chest. It hurts to breathe. 

My gun is in the table beside my bed, tempting me. I had picked it up last night, feeling the weight in my hand. I had just tuned the safety off when Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs, asking if I wanted a cuppa. 

My heart has been burned out of me, just as Moriarty said he would do to Sherlock. Funny, how you only notice the important details when they’re gone. 

Like love. 

I’m finally able to put a name to that electrifying emotion. The feeling of adrenaline as me and him would stumble back into the flat after chasing down a criminal. I’m surprised nothing ever actually happened between us. There was always something there, the air was sometimes so thick with tension that I could barely breathe. But we never crossed that bridge, never took the final step. 

And I regret it with every breath. 

If I could change anything that happened that day...

I’d tell him that I loved him before he fell rather than after. 

Instead of whispers in the night after waking from nightmares, I wish I’d had just told him over breakfast merely a week before. 

Would those three words have changed anything?

My therapist always says it’s not best to dwell on the past. So, I do what I always do, and try to keep moving forward. 

But this time, I don’t know if I can. 

This time, I’ve lost someone for whom there is no possible replacement. 

The sky is getting darker, the lampposts turning on. 

I go to the cabinet above the sink to grab the bottle of whisky. 

At this moment, I understand how my sister became an addict. 

I pour the drink into a glass and go to sit on the couch. I lay across it, not caring anymore. I pull a blanket over my legs. Mrs.Hudson lit the fireplace earlier today, and now all that is left are the glowing remains. 

Mrs. Hudson pities me. She is devastated, of course, but I can tell when she looks at me. 

Every time she sees me, she thinks of me coming home from the funeral. 

I stumbled into the flat and didn’t even make it to the stairs before collapsing. For someone who rarely cries, I sobbed. I had kept it together for the entire funeral, accepting warm comments from those who recognized me. 

She made me tea and patted me soothingly on the back. She hasn’t looked at me the same way since. 

I finally take a sip of the drink, used to the familiar burn. My eyelids are getting heavy, and I put my glass on the table after only one drink. Maybe tonight I’ll be able to sleep without drinking myself into oblivion. 

I am nearly asleep when I hear a knock on the door to the flat. I wonder about who it could be. Mrs. Hudson perhaps? Or Lestrade?

I stand, taking my glass of whisky with me. Maybe I will need that drink after all. 

The visitor knocks again. “I’m coming.” I say. 

I open the door blinking my tired eyes. 

And Sherlock is standing in front of me, looking the same as when he left. 

I drop the glass of whisky and it shatters across the floor. 

“I must be going insane,” I say with a hysterical laugh, “to start hallucinating like this.”

The mirage takes a step forward and all of a sudden, he is wrapping his arms around me. It feel so real. 

“Sherlock...” I choke out a sob. 

“John, it’s really me. I promise.”

I take a step backwards to breathe. “I swear, if this is a dream, then the universe must really be cruel.”

“It’s not a dream, John.” He reaches his hand up to wipe a tear from my cheek. 

The tears only come quicker, and Sherlock wraps his arms around me again. I sink into him. I take in a shaky breath. 

“But how? You- you were-“ my speech breaks with another sob. 

“I’m not dead, John. I’m here.”

I grip onto his forearms and stare at his face. There is a wound I hadn’t noticed, stretching across his cheekbone. I reach my hand up and run my thumb across it. 

“It’s really you.” I whisper. 

“Yes.” He says, with a smile. 

Then I do what I wish I’d had done a long time ago. 

I reach up and kiss him. 

At first, he doesn’t move, and I quickly step back, afraid. But then, he puts his hand on my jaw and tilts my head up. 

And _god_ it is perfect. 

I move my hands to his hips and hook my fingers into his belt loops, tugging him closer. He moves both of his hands to the back of my neck. 

He pulls away for a breath of air and I whimper. I am too far gone to be embarrassed. 

“ _God_ , Sherlock.”

He looks absolutely beautiful. His lips are a plush red from kissing, and his cheeks are pink from blushing. 

“ _John._ ” he gasps. 

He pulls me tightly to him, so tight I can barely breathe. I feel him press a kiss into my hair. I am shaking. 

“I can’t believe it’s really you.” I say. 

“I’m never leaving you again.” He replies. 

And I just stand there in his arms, because it is all I need. For the first time in weeks, I feel

Safe.

**Author's Note:**

> For clarity, I wrote this as if Sherlock has come back only a week after faking his death. 
> 
> Should I write a sequel, or turn this into a series? Tell me


End file.
